Chicken Wire?
In response to the trend set by fellow comedian Chris Brooker (http://www.myspace.com/thebrookerman ) in his blog, I thought that I might take this opportunity to recount the tale of one the weirder gigs I have been “lucky” enough to participate in (the title of this blog, for those who don't know, is a reference to the film "The Blues Brothers", in which the eponymous band turn up to play a gig at a redneck country and western venue and notice that there is indeed a shield of chicken wire around the stage, to protect the performers from the barrage of beer bottles hurled by rowdy punters).
I was booked in to do a weekend of gigs in London and my then agent rang me the Monday before and asked if I would like to go down a day early, on Thursday, to do a private bash.
Now I’m normally a little shy of accepting gigs that are not at established comedy clubs or nights. We comedians, you see, in our more self-indulgent moments, like to convince ourselves that we can make funny happen anywhere, that we can summon comedy at will to do our bidding, any time, any place. This is, of course, fanciful nonsense of the highest order. If people have gone out with the expressed purpose of watching live comedy then I (at the risk of sounding arrogant) am pretty confident I can do a good job of entertaining them, but the better part of me is always very wary of having to convince strangers who have not come out expecting comedy to listen as I awkwardly quip at them. Hence, any shows where comedy is not the primary theme, or where the comedy section seems tagged on, always make think twice before signing up.
On this occasion, though, I decided to throw caution to the wind. The gig paid pretty well and I thought, as I was in London that weekend anyway, that I may as well go down a day earlier and earn an extra three figures. Besides, I thought, this is my job. Not all gigs are going to be fun…
The event was the opening of a posh new restaurant in Ealing. The owner had booked a jazz band to play two sets for his assembled guests, and my job was to do thirty minutes in between. Hardly the most auspicious arrangement ever, but I kept my mind on the money and headed down to London, trying to remain as optimistic as possible.
I arrived at the restaurant at about 7pm. Outside was a grand, extended section of decking, covered by some smartly trimmed awning. Well dressed, glamorous people mingled, drinking champagne and eating canapés being distributed by waiters who circulated the throng with silver trays. The jazz band played in the background, largely ignored, adding some suitably sophisticated acoustic wallpaper to the proceedings.
I was greeted by the owner and exchanged pleasantries for a minute or so before asking what would prove to be the killer question.
“So, could we just pop inside so I can have a look at where I’ll be performing, please?”
He shot me a quizzical look before saying, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
I thought, being a stranger to the city, that maybe he had misunderstood on account of my Northern burr, so I repeated the question, being careful to enunciate as precisely as I could without going overboard and addressing him with the exaggerated air of a schoolmaster patronising a halfwit.
“Oh no”, he replied, “It’s not happening inside. You’re performing out here”.
My jaw, my optimism and my bottle all dropped like a stone.
We exchanged an awkward glance as he studied my face, trying to ascertain the reason for my barely concealed distress. Eventually, after what seemed an age, I feebly blurted out an acknowledgement.
“Out here?”
“Yes, over there”, he said, gesturing to where the band were playing.
I took a deep breath and tried to resign myself to the fact that I was about to perform my very first open air gig. I was just about coming to terms with this when he decided to throw me another curveball.
“You did bring a mike, didn’t you?”
I smiled a laughed a little, but, seeing his face had not changed, I cleared my throat and said, “No”.
“Oh, damn it. I left specific instructions with your agent that you needed to bring your own mike.”
“I could use one of theirs”, I said, motioning to the band.
“No”, he replied, he now adopting the tone of a schoolmaster patronising a halfwit, “you can’t use one of theirs because they’re not using one!”
He was right. The band was entirely instrumental. I felt my cheeks burn and the butterflies in my stomach fluttered wildly. It would be hard enough for me do this gig as it was, never mind having to bellow at the crowd without amplification.
“Well”, I said eventually, trying my best to be assertive, “I’ve not brought one and I can’t do it without”.
With this the owner shuffled off with a hail of “if you want a job doing” and “as if I haven’t got enough to do” type mutterings, eventually going to a pub across the road and returning with a microphone and stand. I was told in no uncertain terms to look after it, as the landlord needed it for his quiz on Sunday. Damn it, I thought. There goes the big rock’n’roll ending where I smash all my gear up.
The jazz band finished their set to be greeted by polite applause by about five people. They gathered behind their instruments for a fag as I set up my mike, then I joined them for a nerve-settling smoke. The pianist, a friendly chap, seemed completely unfazed as to the indifference of their reception, stating, “It’s always the same with these gigs”, before asking me what I was about to do. When I replied that I was a stand-up comedian, he almost choked with shock. The other members of the band looked at me with horrified faces before earnestly expressing how brave I was and how they wished me luck.
Now, as a comedian you are constantly being told how brave you are. Most people seem so petrified of public speaking that they elevate it in their minds to a level of apprehension it just doesn’t deserve. I’ve had a fireman, who, lest we forget, has to walk into burning buildings to rescue people, tell me I’m brave.
On this occasion, however, the assertion of my courage was not based in ignorance, but on the fact that even a layman, in comic terms, could see that I had my work cut out. The band could play, ignored, safe in the knowledge that they were merely employed to add ambience. But I was employed to entertain, and I would need their attention.
I stepped up to the mike, saying, “Hello ladies and gentleman, listen, there’s gonna be a stand-up comic on for your entertainment soon, so have a seat and gather round”. About six or seven people turned their heads, then went back to their conversations.
I waited a few minutes, before plastering on my best “Mr Saturday Night” smile, walking up to mike once again and beginning my act.
About a dozen of the hundred or so people there actually clapped as I stepped up. I tried some patter, before hitting them with an off the cuff comment about our surroundings.
“This is a bit weird, eh? All this decking, these huge sheets of awning…it’s like doing a gig in B&Q!”
With that, one of the few men listening made a big show of rolling his eyes at me before turning back to his drink.
It took at least a few minutes of talking before most people even realised I was on. Slowly their conversations dwindled and they looked over at me, their expressions a mix of confusion and mild annoyance. Who was this hairy, Northern upstart who had the barefaced insolence to interrupt their evening?
I continued to fire my jokes at them, although gradually their annoyance turned not to affection and laughter but to indifference again. The chatter resumed, quietly at first but then louder and louder, almost as if to spite me for having had the nerve to disturb them.
At this juncture, just to underline the pointlessness of what I was doing, an ambulance went past. I was stood about ten or fifteen metres from the road and the noise from the siren, with no walls or windows to deflect it, was deafening. I paused until it had passed and continued blithely on, only to be heckled about thirty seconds later - by a man walking down the street. It was a very casual heckle too; he simply strolled along the pavement near the restaurant, screamed “WANKER!”, and kept on walking. It’s very hard to defeat a heckler with a scathing putdown when he is, effectively, just using the back of your gig as a right of way.
I kept ploughing gallantly on, but was thinking of giving it up as a bad job when I suddenly became aware of a stream of steady laughter coming from my left. I turned to find a pocket of about fifteen people sat around a large table and realised that, God bless them, they were really enjoying it. I told a few more gags, and again the laughter came, this time with a little applause. By now, whether I realised it consciously or not, I had turned my body towards them, and my back on the rest of the crowd. I was performing just to them. I was like the comedic equivalent of table magic.
I did about another twenty minutes just to this table, and both they and I had a great time. It felt as though I was storming this tiny gig – an exclusive gig that was, strangely, being held in the middle of a busy crowd, oblivious to its existence. It was a surreal experience to say the least, but actually a lot of fun.
I wrapped up and immediately the people at the table called me over. They were a bunch of very friendly Irish folk who insisted on getting me drunk (which took little persuasion). As the band piped up again and the first of many pints of Guinness was plonked in front of me, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. What could have been a soul destroying gig had actually come up trumps.
Well, in a way. Generally speaking I do aim to have more than 10-15% of my audience listening and laughing, but then generally speaking I don’t have obstacles to overcome like I did on that night. Normally the crowds I play to want to laugh. That’s what they’ve come out for. So I actually felt quite justified, maybe even a little smug, that those who decided to have a listen found the experience worthwhile.
Of course, I’ve done worse gigs in terms of how I’ve been received, but this stands alone as my weirdest gig, if only for the inappropriateness of putting a comedian on in that setting. Still, it was a good skin-thickener and I got the money, so who cares…
Peace. X
I was booked in to do a weekend of gigs in London and my then agent rang me the Monday before and asked if I would like to go down a day early, on Thursday, to do a private bash.
Now I’m normally a little shy of accepting gigs that are not at established comedy clubs or nights. We comedians, you see, in our more self-indulgent moments, like to convince ourselves that we can make funny happen anywhere, that we can summon comedy at will to do our bidding, any time, any place. This is, of course, fanciful nonsense of the highest order. If people have gone out with the expressed purpose of watching live comedy then I (at the risk of sounding arrogant) am pretty confident I can do a good job of entertaining them, but the better part of me is always very wary of having to convince strangers who have not come out expecting comedy to listen as I awkwardly quip at them. Hence, any shows where comedy is not the primary theme, or where the comedy section seems tagged on, always make think twice before signing up.
On this occasion, though, I decided to throw caution to the wind. The gig paid pretty well and I thought, as I was in London that weekend anyway, that I may as well go down a day earlier and earn an extra three figures. Besides, I thought, this is my job. Not all gigs are going to be fun…
The event was the opening of a posh new restaurant in Ealing. The owner had booked a jazz band to play two sets for his assembled guests, and my job was to do thirty minutes in between. Hardly the most auspicious arrangement ever, but I kept my mind on the money and headed down to London, trying to remain as optimistic as possible.
I arrived at the restaurant at about 7pm. Outside was a grand, extended section of decking, covered by some smartly trimmed awning. Well dressed, glamorous people mingled, drinking champagne and eating canapés being distributed by waiters who circulated the throng with silver trays. The jazz band played in the background, largely ignored, adding some suitably sophisticated acoustic wallpaper to the proceedings.
I was greeted by the owner and exchanged pleasantries for a minute or so before asking what would prove to be the killer question.
“So, could we just pop inside so I can have a look at where I’ll be performing, please?”
He shot me a quizzical look before saying, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
I thought, being a stranger to the city, that maybe he had misunderstood on account of my Northern burr, so I repeated the question, being careful to enunciate as precisely as I could without going overboard and addressing him with the exaggerated air of a schoolmaster patronising a halfwit.
“Oh no”, he replied, “It’s not happening inside. You’re performing out here”.
My jaw, my optimism and my bottle all dropped like a stone.
We exchanged an awkward glance as he studied my face, trying to ascertain the reason for my barely concealed distress. Eventually, after what seemed an age, I feebly blurted out an acknowledgement.
“Out here?”
“Yes, over there”, he said, gesturing to where the band were playing.
I took a deep breath and tried to resign myself to the fact that I was about to perform my very first open air gig. I was just about coming to terms with this when he decided to throw me another curveball.
“You did bring a mike, didn’t you?”
I smiled a laughed a little, but, seeing his face had not changed, I cleared my throat and said, “No”.
“Oh, damn it. I left specific instructions with your agent that you needed to bring your own mike.”
“I could use one of theirs”, I said, motioning to the band.
“No”, he replied, he now adopting the tone of a schoolmaster patronising a halfwit, “you can’t use one of theirs because they’re not using one!”
He was right. The band was entirely instrumental. I felt my cheeks burn and the butterflies in my stomach fluttered wildly. It would be hard enough for me do this gig as it was, never mind having to bellow at the crowd without amplification.
“Well”, I said eventually, trying my best to be assertive, “I’ve not brought one and I can’t do it without”.
With this the owner shuffled off with a hail of “if you want a job doing” and “as if I haven’t got enough to do” type mutterings, eventually going to a pub across the road and returning with a microphone and stand. I was told in no uncertain terms to look after it, as the landlord needed it for his quiz on Sunday. Damn it, I thought. There goes the big rock’n’roll ending where I smash all my gear up.
The jazz band finished their set to be greeted by polite applause by about five people. They gathered behind their instruments for a fag as I set up my mike, then I joined them for a nerve-settling smoke. The pianist, a friendly chap, seemed completely unfazed as to the indifference of their reception, stating, “It’s always the same with these gigs”, before asking me what I was about to do. When I replied that I was a stand-up comedian, he almost choked with shock. The other members of the band looked at me with horrified faces before earnestly expressing how brave I was and how they wished me luck.
Now, as a comedian you are constantly being told how brave you are. Most people seem so petrified of public speaking that they elevate it in their minds to a level of apprehension it just doesn’t deserve. I’ve had a fireman, who, lest we forget, has to walk into burning buildings to rescue people, tell me I’m brave.
On this occasion, however, the assertion of my courage was not based in ignorance, but on the fact that even a layman, in comic terms, could see that I had my work cut out. The band could play, ignored, safe in the knowledge that they were merely employed to add ambience. But I was employed to entertain, and I would need their attention.
I stepped up to the mike, saying, “Hello ladies and gentleman, listen, there’s gonna be a stand-up comic on for your entertainment soon, so have a seat and gather round”. About six or seven people turned their heads, then went back to their conversations.
I waited a few minutes, before plastering on my best “Mr Saturday Night” smile, walking up to mike once again and beginning my act.
About a dozen of the hundred or so people there actually clapped as I stepped up. I tried some patter, before hitting them with an off the cuff comment about our surroundings.
“This is a bit weird, eh? All this decking, these huge sheets of awning…it’s like doing a gig in B&Q!”
With that, one of the few men listening made a big show of rolling his eyes at me before turning back to his drink.
It took at least a few minutes of talking before most people even realised I was on. Slowly their conversations dwindled and they looked over at me, their expressions a mix of confusion and mild annoyance. Who was this hairy, Northern upstart who had the barefaced insolence to interrupt their evening?
I continued to fire my jokes at them, although gradually their annoyance turned not to affection and laughter but to indifference again. The chatter resumed, quietly at first but then louder and louder, almost as if to spite me for having had the nerve to disturb them.
At this juncture, just to underline the pointlessness of what I was doing, an ambulance went past. I was stood about ten or fifteen metres from the road and the noise from the siren, with no walls or windows to deflect it, was deafening. I paused until it had passed and continued blithely on, only to be heckled about thirty seconds later - by a man walking down the street. It was a very casual heckle too; he simply strolled along the pavement near the restaurant, screamed “WANKER!”, and kept on walking. It’s very hard to defeat a heckler with a scathing putdown when he is, effectively, just using the back of your gig as a right of way.
I kept ploughing gallantly on, but was thinking of giving it up as a bad job when I suddenly became aware of a stream of steady laughter coming from my left. I turned to find a pocket of about fifteen people sat around a large table and realised that, God bless them, they were really enjoying it. I told a few more gags, and again the laughter came, this time with a little applause. By now, whether I realised it consciously or not, I had turned my body towards them, and my back on the rest of the crowd. I was performing just to them. I was like the comedic equivalent of table magic.
I did about another twenty minutes just to this table, and both they and I had a great time. It felt as though I was storming this tiny gig – an exclusive gig that was, strangely, being held in the middle of a busy crowd, oblivious to its existence. It was a surreal experience to say the least, but actually a lot of fun.
I wrapped up and immediately the people at the table called me over. They were a bunch of very friendly Irish folk who insisted on getting me drunk (which took little persuasion). As the band piped up again and the first of many pints of Guinness was plonked in front of me, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. What could have been a soul destroying gig had actually come up trumps.
Well, in a way. Generally speaking I do aim to have more than 10-15% of my audience listening and laughing, but then generally speaking I don’t have obstacles to overcome like I did on that night. Normally the crowds I play to want to laugh. That’s what they’ve come out for. So I actually felt quite justified, maybe even a little smug, that those who decided to have a listen found the experience worthwhile.
Of course, I’ve done worse gigs in terms of how I’ve been received, but this stands alone as my weirdest gig, if only for the inappropriateness of putting a comedian on in that setting. Still, it was a good skin-thickener and I got the money, so who cares…
Peace. X
posted by Ben Schofield at 5:25 PM
1 comments
